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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27084415">light my fire</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/ryuujitsu/pseuds/zetaophiuchi'>zetaophiuchi (ryuujitsu)</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>light my fire [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Goon (2011)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alcohol, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Canon-Typical Violence, Crimes Against Kraft Dinner, Dirty Talk, Infidelity, Je Me Souviens, Jealousy, M/M, Misogyny, Nipple Play, Objectification, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Recreational Drug Use, Size Kink, Toxic Masculinity, Yes I have listened to WAP, mild exhibitionism, rampant objectification</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-10-18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-10-18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-09 02:21:57</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,709</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27084415</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/ryuujitsu/pseuds/zetaophiuchi</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>“Do you need something?” Doug asks, and Xavier says, “Yes, Doug, yes, I do.”</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Doug Glatt/Xavier LaFlamme</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>light my fire [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1985743</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>34</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>light my fire</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Saw the movie on Friday, stewed for approximately 12 hours over the unbelievable sexual tension; then wrote this fic in a burst of derangement after texting <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/FLWhite">FLWhite</a>: "I've cracked I'm writing it, time to LaFlamme, *rail LaFlamme." (And FLWhite wrote one too: <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27083821">Doug notices</a>. It's funny and fluffy and sweet as strawberry ice cream.)</p><p>Filth. Pure id. Hello, Internet, here are my kinks.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Xavier’s a lover, not a fighter. He’s a winger; he’s supposed to be fast on his skates. Faster than you: faster than anyone. Above the fray. There goes number 70, whizzing up the right, light on his feet. He’ll skate circles around you. He’s dancing, oh, he’s dancing.</p><p>But here’s a secret: Xavier can fight. If he wants to, if he has to. He can fight just as well as he fucks. Maybe even better. Because before Doug got here, they all had to fight. So Xavier’s bunched a jersey in his fist before and thrown punches until his knuckles creaked. So Xavier knows what a good punch looks like.</p><p>So he appreciates Doug putting on a show just for him, staring him down with those pretty, pretty eyes while he caves someone’s skull in. It gets his blood pumping. It turns him on, the look in Doug’s eyes.</p><p>He memorizes that look. Revisits it in his head after every game, after the Zamboni’s cleared the blood and teeth off the ice, after the party, after the after party. He stands in the kitchen of the apartment they share, drinking one last beer, meditating on Doug’s eyes, on the unmoving, immoveable quality of Doug’s face and Doug’s body, that body, planted on the ice like a boulder.</p><p>Doug comes back at four, limping. These days he limps: the bolts in his ankle are close to the skin and the Halifax cold creeps into them, makes the boulder teeter.</p><p>Xavier likes this knowledge. He likes knowing about this fracture line in the rock. He likes knowing where he can kick Doug to make him go down.</p><p>“Yo.” He toasts Doug with his beer.</p><p>“Hi, Xavier,” Doug says. You’d think he’d rumble, the way he’s built, but he talks so soft, Xavier thinks, shitting Christ, just like a kitten. “Boy, it’s late.”</p><p>“It is indeed.”</p><p>Doug stops banging around the cabinets looking for something to eat; he sticks his head out of the kitchen and peers around, squinting into the dark. Xavier came home with a puck bunny. He knows Doug knows; Doug saw them leave together; he made sure of it. “Is your friend asleep? Should I be quieter?”</p><p>The puck bunny is gone. Sandra or Samantha, he didn’t bother to get it right, she didn’t care, and she didn’t stay. And he didn’t get hard enough to stick it in her, in the end. It happens. He ate her out instead while she blew him in vain, the good old sixty-nine. And now he’s shirtless in the kitchen, ogling his roommate, his dick tingling in his sweatpants.</p><p>Here’s another secret, a real secret: sometimes Xavier goes to bed with other men. He doesn’t let anyone film those encounters, although his policy isn’t, strictly speaking, enforceable. There’s a shitty flip-phone video out there of Xavier’s disembodied torso in someone’s disgusting flannel-sheeted bed in fucking Winnipeg, his white ass jiggling as it takes a cock. He was too far gone to do much about the filming. Way too far gone: full of pills and ecstasy and vodka. And cock. So much cock. He was floating on a cloud and getting railed by a fucking mountain. He remembers it feeling bigger than it looked. Endless and amazing. Maybe it’s on Pornhub now. Maybe he can find it again, revisit it, relive it.</p><p>And his third secret, his deepest and most closely held: sometimes, when Xavier looks at Doug’s fists, he thinks about Doug's cock. He’s thinking about it now, about how it might be as girthy as this fucking bottomless bottle of beer. He takes another swig and sucks a drip off the neck. “You can be whatever you want to be, Dougie,” he says.</p><p>Doug blinks at him. Says politely, “Thank you, Xavier.”</p><p>“She’s gone. The girl.”</p><p>“Oh, okay. Do you mind if I make some mac and cheese? ’Scuse me.”</p><p>Xavier moves to the side and watches him, his bodyguard, his boulder, his rock, his good old sixty-nine. Holding his little cooking pot in his enormous hand, rummaging in the cabinet for his last dusty box of Kraft Dinner.</p><p>“How’s Eva?” he asks.</p><p>“Good,” Doug says. He’s concentrating, filling the pot to some invisible line. Who knew Doug the Thug took his Kraft Dinner so seriously? Stovetop preparation, of all things. Well, the stove is all they have left, after Stevesie and the Russians fucked the microwave with a can of beans. Not that he doesn’t trust Doug to mix cheese powder and water, but since Kim’s not here to pick shrapnel out of their foreheads, Xavier decides he’ll stay in the kitchen. To supervise.</p><p>“You can bring her over some nights, you know. I don’t mind.”</p><p>“Thanks, Xavier, that’s nice of you.” To the stove now, those giant fingers twisting the dial so gently. “She likes sleeping in her own bed.” Pause. Twist. “I like sleeping in her bed, too. It’s a comfortable bed.”</p><p>Doug sounds wistful. “Trouble in paradise?”</p><p>“Huh?”</p><p>“You and your girl having problems?”</p><p>Eva has a rep. Talk about sixty-nining; he knows for a fact she’s enjoyed all kinds of numerical configurations with the Russians. And Gord, too: it was a bad night for both of them. But they’ve all learned not to bring it up, not because Doug’ll pound them into the dirt, but because it doesn’t get a rise out of him, nothing at all, it’s like chirping a wall. (“Yeah, Eva told me, she said you were nothing but respectful. But you could have lasted longer. I’m glad she had a nice time. Thanks, guys.”)</p><p>Well: Xavier’s drunk and careless and thinking about Eva makes him feel like he’s made of needles. “Just seems to me, if you weren’t having problems, she’d be riding you in the living room right now.”</p><p>“I don’t think Eva would do anything on that couch,” Doug says. “You sit on it naked, and we never clean it.”</p><p>“On the floor, then.”</p><p>“I’m more of a bed guy, I think.”</p><p>By the book, huh? Strict missionary? Shit, he thinks, picturing it. Doug’s bulk overwhelming his partner, flattening her into the mattress. Dark hair slides across the pillow and Doug moves and fuck, <em>fuck</em>, it’s himself under Doug, groaning, dragging his fingers through the sweat on Doug’s back. He makes eye contact with himself. His double winks.</p><p>“And anyway, I thought we should give you some privacy,” Doug says.</p><p>He gives himself a shake. “Oh yeah?”</p><p>“You and Samantha.”</p><p>So it was Samantha after all. “Privacy?” More needling. He chews on the lip of the bottle and says, “But we put on such a show.”</p><p>“You play your music too loud.”</p><p>“I see,” he says. “Next time I’ll turn it down so you can hear us good and clear, how about that?”</p><p>Doug doesn’t answer. Xavier’s not sure he’s listening anymore: he’s busy cutting open his sad little packet of noodles, comically small in the pinch of his thumb and forefinger. The water’s barely begun to simmer, but Doug pours them in anyway.</p><p>“Put a lid on it, it’ll boil faster,” Xavier says.</p><p>“Thanks, Xavier,” Doug says again.</p><p>“Stir it,” Xavier says. “Or it’s gonna stick to the bottom.”</p><p>“Okay,” Doug says.</p><p>More watching: Doug watches the water and the spoon in the water, and he watches Doug.</p><p>“Do you need something?” Doug asks, and Xavier says, “Yes, Doug, yes, I do.” And he watches Doug’s eyes slide toward the fucking box of Kraft Dinner. “No, Doug,” he says. “I don’t want any of your fucking pasta.”</p><p>“Oh.” Doug sets the spoon on the counter, wincing: it’s gotten hot. Of course it would, touching the edge of the pot like that. Doug doesn’t know what he’s doing. He doesn’t know what he’s doing, but he’ll do whatever Xavier says.</p><p>“Listen to me, Doug,” he says. “I’m drunk.”</p><p>“Me too,” Doug says, solidly, in solidarity, what a guy, what a bro. Xavier wants to bite him. He looks at Doug and portions him out like a bull at the butcher’s: shoulder, haunch.</p><p>“I’m drunk, and I think it would feel really nice, really fucking nice, if you let me ride you in the living room.”</p><p>Doug looks at him, puzzled, osti de coliss de criss, he can see the questions swirling, one after another. <em>Ride me? Like a horse? Like a donkey? Like a—</em></p><p>He watches as understanding slots into place, almost audibly, a mechanical crash. <em>Ka-thunk.</em></p><p>“Oh,” Doug says. “Oh, uh. Xavier. That’s.”</p><p>“Not interested?” But how can that be, he thinks; you’re very interested; I’ve seen it, I’ve seen how you look at me. You’ll break jaws for me, pop teeth onto the ice for me; you’ll fuck me, won’t you, Dougie, just the way I want you to? He says this last bit out loud, in French. Americans dig the French; Doug’s no exception. He’s seen the way Doug’s eyes flicker, every time they’re on the ice in Montreal. And afterward, getting drunk, getting poutine: Doug watching the waitresses, all the dark-haired perky-titted little waitresses. <em>Bonjour-hi.</em> He says that out loud, too.</p><p>But Doug says, “My brother’s gay.”</p><p>“Okay? Your brother’s not here right now, if you’re trying to set us up.” And your brother’s not <em>you</em>, he thinks; I’ve seen him, he’s like a piece of string, he’s a noodle.</p><p>“No,” Doug says, “I wouldn’t do that. He has a boyfriend. Richard. Richard’s really nice.”</p><p>“I fail to see how any of this is relevant.”</p><p>“I just think you might be mixing us up,” Doug says. “Because you’re, you know, drunk off your ass. Ira’s the gay one. He’s gay, and I’m stupid.”</p><p>“You’re not stupid,” Xavier says.</p><p>Doug looks him in the eye. He shivers.</p><p>“Xavier, I’m fucking stupid.”</p><p>“You’re <em>being</em> fucking stupid,” Xavier says. “I’m asking you to fuck <em>me</em> stupid and what do you do? You stand in the kitchen stirring pasta.”</p><p>“You told me to stir it. And I’m hungry.”</p><p>“I’m horny. It didn’t work out with Sarah tonight. Samantha. Whatever. C’mon, you know I don’t play well when I’m horny.”</p><p>“Don’t bring hockey into this.”</p><p>“Doug,” he says. He puts the bottle down. He puts his arms around Doug’s neck and whispers. “Doug, for the team.”</p><p>“Fuck,” Doug says.</p><p>And then Doug picks him up. Because he can, because Xavier’s a fucking flyweight without his stick and gloves and skates and padding. Because after another season of relentless training Doug’s strong enough to check Ross Rhea <em>through</em> the glass, and Xavier’s like nothing in comparison, he’s like air. Jesus fuck, he thinks, as Doug floats him toward the living room. I <em>am</em> drunk off my ass. Off my tits. Off my whatever. I can’t feel my face. I can’t feel my feet. But I can see myself, I can see the fucking tent in my fucking sweatpants.</p><p>“You don’t have to touch me,” he says, “I’ll take care of everything, you don’t even have to look, close your eyes, pretend it’s her, Eva, pretend…”</p><p>“Shut up,” Doug says, and Xavier groans. Doug throws him down and Xavier groans more and louder. “I mean it, shut up.”</p><p>Doug remembers the lube shoved behind the third couch cushion; he supposes Doug would, after he spent a whole afternoon playing Call of Duty with the bottle digging into his kidney, long-suffering, maybe too grossed out to touch it. He isn’t too grossed out now; he fishes it out.</p><p>“So you know how it works,” he says.</p><p>Doug looks like he wants to punch him. He looks vicious, wild. Xavier’s going to come in his fucking pants. “I know the basics. Ira told me. Pat, too, but I think he was just being a dick. He made me watch a video." Some of the viciousness fades. "Do you have a condom? It’s important to be safe.”</p><p>“Body of fucking Christ,” Xavier says. He pulls one from his pocket, the one he would have used with Samantha. Pat, he thinks, that scrawny friend from Massachusetts; I didn’t know I had competition from that quarter. All your buddies want you to fuck them, Doug, aren’t you lucky.</p><p>“Large?” Doug says. “Wow.”</p><p>“Fuck you,” Xavier says. “Why don’t you take a look for yourself before you call bullshit. Go on, take a look, take a fucking look.”</p><p>“You told me to close my eyes,” Doug says. Is that a glimmer of a smile?</p><p>Xavier pulls his sweats down. And then he starts to shake. He’s shaking because Doug’s looking at him: Doug, those eyes, that stare. How can Eva stand it?</p><p>“Enough already,” he says.</p><p>Doug says, “Didn’t think you were the type to shave. You don’t shave your face.”</p><p>“Wh—fuck, Doug, it’s different downstairs.”</p><p>“Your ass, too,” Doug says, wonderingly. He touches Xavier with a thumb and Xavier bites his lips against another stream of blasphemy. “Isn’t that hard? You must be very flexible, Xavier.”</p><p>“<em>Something’s</em> hard,” he says. “And I <em>am</em> flexible. Let me show you.” He starts to wrap a leg around Doug’s waist, but Doug grabs his thigh and forces it back down. “Tabarnak!”</p><p>“Ira says to go slow.”</p><p>“Please stop fucking talking about your fucking brother.”</p><p>“Because he’s my brother? That doesn’t bother Oleg and Evgeni.”</p><p>“Christ-shit-fuck,” Xavier says, trembling. “Don’t talk about them either. Don’t talk at all. Just fuck me. Fuck me. I can take it, Doug. I can—<em>oh fuck!</em>”</p><p>It’s in him, Doug’s forefinger is in him, cold as hell, slippery as a fish with lube. His head hits the armrest.</p><p>“You okay?”</p><p>“<em>Doug</em>.”</p><p>“I don’t want to hurt you, so…” Doug’s moving his finger in little circles, the pad of it pressing so tenderly against the tenderest of his spots. He feels tears in his eyes, tears of shock, of frustration: I want you to brutalize me, he thinks, I don’t want you to make me feel like this, like <em>this</em>, fucking Christ, my toes are curling. “Xavier?”</p><p>“I’m fine, I’m good, I’m fantastic.”</p><p>Doug looks at him, a little uncertain: just one finger and he’s already crying. “Do you want to stop?”</p><p>“No, I don’t fucking want to stop.”</p><p>“Ira says three fingers, but we can keep at it until you’re comfortable. I feel like four might be better, actually.”</p><p>God, my God, he’s going to fist me, Xavier thinks, and his balls tighten and his cock jumps weakly against his stomach. His dick's so wet already, he’s dripping.</p><p>“Three’s fine,” he manages. “Two, even. Your fingers are huge.”</p><p>“They’re not really.”</p><p>This is ridiculous, Xavier thinks, I’m flat on my back with a leg in the air and we’re arguing about the size of your fingers. He drags his hands up his stomach, through his precome, over his chest. He thinks about Doug twisting the stove dial and twists his nipples, left, then right, gasping.</p><p>“Wow—Xavier.”</p><p>“You like it?” he says, writhing. “Like watching me?”</p><p>“It’s something.” With his free hand, Doug squeezes more lube onto his fingers. He’s going to empty the fucking bottle.</p><p>He pinches himself until he’s red and sore, and panting, and Doug’s <em>still</em> working fingers inside of him, two and three, scrutinizing his progress like he’s watching his pasta boil. God, the sound of it, of Doug stirring him up, stirring up his insides—</p><p>“I’m gonna go crazy,” he says, “I’m gonna lose it, Doug, hurry up.”</p><p>“I guess you’re ready,” Doug concedes.</p><p>“Douuuug,” he says, a pathetic whine. But he gathers himself long enough to chirp as Doug examines the condom packet: “Need a smaller size?”</p><p>“No, I think this is okay,” Doug says evenly. “Well. It might be kind of tight. Actually. Um, I’ll be okay, though. Don’t worry.”</p><p>“Oh God,” Xavier says, “oh my God.”</p><p>Doug undoes his fly. He pulls himself out, rolls the condom on. Xavier almost can’t look. He can’t look and he can’t look away. His mouth is fucking watering. He’s so open and so ready and they’re really going to do this, Doug’s really going to do this for him, to him. Twelve months of watching Doug, staring at Doug, spying on Doug, eyeing him, eyeing his cock sidelong at the urinal, in the locker room, imagining, and it’s going to fucking happen. Doug’s big and he knows he’s going to feel even bigger. I wish I had my phone, he thinks suddenly. I want to record this. I want to record the look on his face. The look in his eyes. When he has me for the first time, when we have each other.</p><p>“Eva likes to watch too,” Doug tells him. “She says…”</p><p>“Don’t—” He’s gasping like he can’t breathe. He fondles his chest. His nerves are like live wires. He’s shaking like a sapling in a storm. “Don’t talk about her, I’ll go soft.”</p><p>“Sorry,” Doug says, and he lubes up and lines up and <em>pushes</em>, and Xavier screams. “Oh God,” Doug says, holding him, holding him down. “Oh God, oh <em>fuck</em>. Xav, baby, <em>baby.</em>”</p><p>I was going to ride him, Xavier thinks blearily, I was going to take charge, I was going to blow his mind.</p><p>He moans. “Doug—”</p><p>“I like it when you say my name,” Doug says.</p><p>“Doug,” he says. “Doug, Doug—Dougie—<em>ah, osti—</em>Doug—”</p><p>It’s like they’re in a stadium; there’s roaring in his ears, the whole fucking crowd is cheering for them, for Doug, <em>Doug, Doug</em>.</p><p>He’s howling like a porn star. The neighbors are going to start beating their walls with broomsticks. If there are dogs in the street they’re going to join in the chorus. “God, Doug—you’re fucking me so deep, you’re fucking my <em>soul</em>, Doug, <em>Doug</em>—”</p><p>Doug’s not nearly as theatrical; he’s methodical, he’s pacing himself like he’s preparing to fuck Xavier until the sun rises and sets again, snapping his hips in time to a silent beat; the couch is squeaking, thumping against the floor—thump squeak thump, thump squeak—he’s going to fuck Xavier <em>to death</em>.</p><p>“Wreck me, tear me up, I don’t want to be able to sit down tomorrow, I don’t want to be able to sit down for a week—” he’s holding Doug’s shirt like he’s going to fight him, holding on for dear life “—Doug, <em>coliss,</em> Doug—”</p><p>Doug grunts. “I’m gonna,” he says. “I’m gonna—soon. Can I—in you? Can I? You don’t—mind?”</p><p>“<em>Fuuuuck</em>,” Xavier says; he grabs Doug’s hand and drags it onto his cock, and Doug’s hand closes around him like instinct, and like instinct, he squeezes, <em>hard</em>. Xavier bucks up with a yell and feels Doug’s other arm wrapping around him like a steel fucking band, holding him close. He’s pinned and spread and so, so open, fucked loose; Doug’s ruined him. “I don’t give a fuck,” he drools, squashed against Doug’s chest. He can barely hear himself over the slap of Doug’s balls against his ass, the squish of their bodies. “Do it, come in me, I love you, I love your cock, I love it, I love—God—<em>God</em>—”</p><p>Someone really is beating the wall—with a broom, with the meat of their hand—there’s an alarm shrilling in the kitchen—</p><p>“Fuck, my mac and cheese,” Doug groans, and then he spasms, crushing Xavier into the couch, and comes. Xavier comes too, almost as an afterthought, and the short, sharp twitch of his orgasm drags another groan from Doug’s throat.</p><p>Doug pulls out too fast—Xavier yelps—and waddles into the kitchen, balls bouncing, cupping himself with one hand to keep the condom on. Xavier lies back and breathes—and touches himself, idly, his hot cock and the fucked-out rim of his hole, wet with lube. It stings. He hisses. His hair is sticking to his cheeks and he brushes it irritably away.</p><p>The apartment smells faintly like smoke; his pores are leaking beer and sex, and there’s come all over his stomach. He tries to slow his breathing. Doug’s crashing around in the kitchen. He expects, at any moment, to see Doug limping swiftly for the door, tucking himself back in his pants, tugging on his jacket. Hurrying to Eva’s, to kneel in the snow and confess his sins.</p><p>But Doug comes back, five or ten or twenty minutes later. The condom’s gone, but his cock’s still out, no less impressive for being mostly flaccid. Xavier gulps.</p><p>Doug’s wearing the official Halifax Highlander oven mitts, a badly printed Angus melting across each palm. He looks upset. “I burned it,” he says.</p><p>“What?” His voice is dry and cracked, practically a whistle. It shouldn’t surprise either of them, but it does; he blinks, and Doug recoils. A neighbor is cursing them through the wall. A baby is crying. The sun is rising, pink light limning the blinds, and he’s about to be sober and sour with regret.</p><p>“The mac and cheese,” Doug says. “All the water boiled out. The pot’s ruined. My mom gave me that pot.”</p><p>“I’ll buy you another fucking pot,” he says. “And I’ll order you a pizza. Okay?” He snorts. It makes him ache. “Oh, <em>coliss.</em>”</p><p>Doug bends down. Puts one hand under his shoulder blades and another under his thighs. Hoists him up.</p><p>“Doug?”</p><p>“I like pancakes,” Doug says. “In the morning. Not pizza. Just a suggestion. Smitty’s does great pancakes. They open at seven.”</p><p>“Noted,” he says, “but what the fuck are you doing?”</p><p>“I’m taking you to bed,” Doug says. He kicks open Xavier's bedroom door, half-trips over the gear bag lying in the doorway, and deposits Xavier onto his mattress like a sack of potatoes. Xavier keeps his condoms in the second drawer of his nightstand, and Doug clearly remembers that, too; he pins Xavier with a forearm as he reaches over and rummages, then pulls out the whole fucking box. “We don’t have to go right at seven. I think ten or eleven might be better.”</p><p>He swallows. “Sure, Doug.”</p><p>His legs are bent at the knee. He spreads them. Slides a hand to his cock. Watches Doug watching him.</p><p>“Noon, even,” Doug says.</p><p>“Sure.”</p><p>Doug throws his mitts off like he’s squaring up; he puts his big bare hands on Xavier’s chest, on his nipples. He looks at Xavier like they’re on the ice, circling each other, smelling blood: no eyes for anyone else.</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thanks for reading! If you liked it, please <a href="https://hallo-catfish.tumblr.com/post/632335455845761024/light-my-fire-zetaophiuchi-ryuujitsu-goon">reblog</a>!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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